A Fever for Gold
by LeonardoSV
Summary: In the forests surrounding one of the quietest towns of Westeros, two friends who have always struggled to eat find the opportunity to live with wealth. Meanwhile, a young lord with a thirst for power threatens the delicate balance of one of the Seven Kingdoms. Their fates are connected by something all Men share: A Fever for Gold.
1. Chapter 1 - 2

10

 **A Song of Ice and Fire**

 **\- A Fever for Gold -**

 **\- THE REACH AND SURROUNDINGS -**

 **\- House Tyrell of Highgarden -**

" _ **Growing Strong**_ _ **"**_

Lord Garner of House Tyrell (100AL-166AL).

Lady Ellaine of House Baratheon, his wife, aged 53.

Ser Randell of House Tyrell, their firstborn son, aged 24.

Cedric Tyrell, their second-born son, aged 15.

Delayah Tyrell, their first daughter, aged 11.

\- Yvonne Hightower, Ser Randell's wife, aged 21.

\- Ser Harkin Varner, sworn sword and captain of the Tyrell armies.

\- Maester Edmund, sworn to the lords of Highgarden.

 **\- House Hightower of Oldtown -**

" _ **We Light the Way**_ _ **"**_

Lord Folke of House Hightower, aged 71.

Lady Allyah of House Mullendore, Lord Folke's first wife. (99AL-148AL).

Lady Elinora of House Costayne, Lord Folke's second wife (100AL-159AL).

Lambert Hightower, Lord Folke's firstborn son of his first marriage, aged 21.

Yvonne Hightower, twin sister of Lambert.

Perce Hightower, Lord Folke's second born son of his second marriage, aged 16.

 **QUINN**

It was near sunset of a very hot day not many weeks after a fairly short, four year winter. The heat of the fire that had been welcomed for so long was now felt as repellent, and Quinn and his friend Lowis had spent the entire day slaving in front of their respective furnaces. So, when Quinn's father was distracted by the clientele, him and Lowis managed to sneak out. Quinn, son of Nigel, was a baker, just like the rest of his family. They owned a small bakery in Honeyholt, a town close to Brightwater Keep ruled by House Beesbury, who in turn served the Tyrells of Brightwater. Quinn and Lowis always passed the Beesbury mansion when they walked to the tavern and envied the wealth it showcased. Both of them were equally poor. Lowis was a blacksmith: He had a little forge his father had left him after he died. He worked alone, all day, trying to get business with no success. There was little demand and too much competition for his product at Honeyholt, and at twenty years of age Lowis was still a novice.

But none of that mattered that day. They had managed to steal some apples at the market, which they now ate while they walked and told vulgar jokes on their way to the waters of the Beruna river. Their friendship was an unusual one, for Lowis was four years older than Quinn, but it would be difficult to find one as sincere as theirs. This was not the first time they had done something similar — it had become a summer tradition. Quinn would race Lowis for about a mile or two down the river, and he usually won. Although Lowis was stronger, Quinn was much slender and thus faster.

This time was no different. A mile and a half down the Beruna, Quinn had to await a good while for the tired Lowis to arrive. When his friend did manage to crawl to the margins out of breath, Quinn mocked his friend. "This time it didn't even feel like a competition! What has happened to you?"

Lowis had to take a few deep gulfs of air before he could answer. "I guess I'm too heavy to carry — Unlike you, I do have some muscle."

Quinn shook his head. "You ought to be able to come up with something better than that, Lowis."

Before Lowis could come up with something clever, they heard a noise at their backs. They turned, but saw nothing. Quinn's eyebrows were flexed together in worry, as he tried to see into the woods. "What was that?" Lowis asked.

"Don't know, but I want to." Said Quinn, as he got up.

"Quinn! Stop! Don't do this again! It's near sundown, we gotta get back to the town…" Shouted Lowis with worry as his friend entered the enclosed trees.

"Don't be such a little _girl_ , Lowis. Come on!"

With reluctance, after a few looks at the forest's edge and a few seconds later, Lowis followed Quinn.

Quinn was on his knees while he analyzed a footprint in the grass. It was not very big, about the size of a broad man's hand. It had the markings of claws. "What do you think? Bear?" Asked Quinn.

"Too small for a bear… But I'm no hunter to say." Replied Lowis.

Quinn nodded. "Uhum. Yes, I think so too. I'm no hunter either, but this is clearly not a bear's footmark. It has to belong to something else…" He said it with the tone of someone who hinted to know more.

Lowis was eager with curiosity. "What is it, then?"

Quinn let a dramatic pause slip by before answering "A lion's."

Lowis laughed so loud he was probably heard all the way to Honeyholt. "What?!" Said Quinn, with anger for not being taken seriously. "It has to be!"

After Lowis managed to stop his cackle and wipe a few tears, he refuted his friend's flawed reasoning. "What's house Tyrell's sigil, you dumb boy?"

"Don't call me dumb or a boy! And what does that even have to do with anything?"

"Answer!" Insisted Lowis.

"A golden rose. Everyone in the Reach knows that, and you call me the dumb boy?!"

Lowis chuckled a little more. "Yes, a golden rose, not a _lion_ , because lions used to live in the Westerlands. That's why houseLannister _,_ _not_ Tyrell,has it as its symbol. Now, the lions have been nearly all dead even in the Westerlands for centuries now. Everybody in the Seven bloody Kingdoms knows that."

Quinn was not intimidated by Lowis' argument. "Ha! But there are still _some_ lions alive."

Lowis hesitated now. "Well, yes, but…"

"So there is a possibility that this is a lion's footprint."

Lowis rose his hands in frustration, as if he could not even believe he was being forced to have such a discussion. "Aye, aye, maybe it could be, but what are the chances? The only lions people see nowadays are the ones they keep at the cages in Casterly Rock!"

Quinn smiled. "And those lions have to come from somewhere, don't they?" He said, as if he had helped Lowis to see the irrefutable truth he believed to possess.

"That somewhere is not the Reach!" Shouted Lowis, for Quinn was already in front, following the trail. "Where are you going? It's getting dark, for fuck's sake!" Quinn did not answer, so Lowis followed, but not without letting out a loud sigh first.

º º º

Quinn smiled with satisfaction while Lowis' mouth hung open with dismay. "Seven hells… I'll be damned." He whispered.

The light of the full moon feebly illuminated a scraggy lion. It laid on the floor, and was breathing with difficulty next to the entrance of its den. After a short while, Quinn spoke first. "Do you think it's dying?"

"Certainly seems so." Lowis answered.

Again, Quinn nodded. "I think so too…" And, right after saying that, he got out of the bushes where they were hiding and stepped dangerously close to the agonizing beast. Lowis tensed his entire body, but was not able to say anything out of fear that the lion might hear him and attack.

Yet the lion did not react. It did not even seem to notice Quinn, nor the knife he took out of his belt for it was too close to its own natural demise. Swiftly, Quinn cut the beast's stomach open — it howled with pain, and but a brief moment later, it was dead. Lowis came out of the bushes right after, screaming "Are you fucking mad? Son of a whore!"

Quinn laughed, loud and with satisfaction. "Such a frightened little cunt you are, Lowis! Behold Quinn, son of Nigel, Lion Slayer!"

Lowis rolled his eyes. "Are you done, _Ser_ Quinn? Let's get going before we are mauled by a bear."

"Not before I get my spoils of war." Replied Quinn. He began to cut out the lion's head, making a literal bloody mess in the process. "Do you know how to do this?" He asked.

Lowis did not answer. He was inside the den, looking around, searching for his own loot. It was dark and close to impossible to see: He was only able to explore using his tact. He touched moist, rocky walls, the dirty floor, some small bones and, finally… a skull. He jumped and screamed, frightened by it. Quinn yelled from the outside "Are you hurt? What is it?"

"No!" Shouted back Lowis. "It's only the dead…"

"What is dead may never bite!" Said Quinn, this time at the entrance of the cave, holding the lion's head. "Isn't that what the Ironborn say?"

Lowis did not bother to correct his friend. He kept searching, until he felt the skeleton's ragged clothes. A few inches away, he found the dead man's backpack. Lowis took it out of the cave, where he could see what was inside. Besides him, over his shoulder, Quinn observed with eagerness. Lowis turned it upside down, letting its contents fall on the grass: A pickaxe, lighting stones and three small torches. "Looks like he was about to explore that cave…" Murmured Lowis.

"Why do you think he would do that?" Asked Quinn.

"Let us see." Replied Lowis after he finished lighting one of the torches.

Quinn grinned. "Who would have thought Lowis would ever explore a lion's den!"

"Aye… Who would have." Answered Lowis before going back into the cave, holding a torch with one hand and the pickaxe with the other. He illuminated the walls around them as they walked the downwards path that went deeper into the earth. It did not take too long before they found its dead end, with several markings on the stone's face.

"Appears to be an attempt at doing some mining." Said Quinn. "Do you imagine there is something to mine here?"

"Shall we find out?" Answered Lowis before striking the wall as hard as he could with the pickaxe.

º º º

Several minutes later, both of them stared, stupefied, at the glimmer of the gold they had exposed.

 **PERCE**

Perce Hightower sat in silence next to his brother Lambert and to his father's deathbed. Lord Folke of House Hightower was taken by a fever that had stormed swiftly. He was dead in the earliness of the summer of the 168th year after King Aegon's Landing, at the age of seventy-and-one. His last words to his sons which patiently had been awaiting his passing by the bedside were incomprehensible gibberish — it was the sickness speaking, not the father Perce remembered.

At the very moment when the light in Folke's eyes went out, Lambert got up from his chair and out of the room. Perce stayed, alone. After he closed his father's eyes, he noticed how cold the castle was, even during the summer. The thick stone walls of the Hightower Keep left the warmth and almost all the light outside — the only illumination of the room was a thin line of sunshine sneaking through a high window. In that isolated place, Perce remained. He did not cry. He simply waited, yet for what he did not know.

Later, Lambert returned with the Maester of the castle. The old man, bent over the years by time itself and his chain, stepped close to his fallen sire. "Is he really dead?" Asked Lambert from the door's archway.

The Maester tried to feel Folke's pulse to no avail. "Yes, my Lord. I am afraid he is." He answered with the jarring and low voice of someone who has just received terrible news.

Lambert let out the gulf of air he had been holding and passed his fingers through his long, dark hair. "Well. That is unfortunate." He paused for a brief moment. Perce looked up to his older brother, the new Lord of Oldtown, from where he sat and thought he did not look the part. The image he had of rulers were almost opposite to what his brother was: Tall, strong, young, proud, but above all, unwise and impulsive. He can inspire devotion, certainly, Perce thought; but can he make decisions as their father would have made them?

While Perce wondered, Lambert spoke up again. "Maester, send ravens to all the prominent houses who have given us oaths of allegiance. Lord Hightower requires audience with them to discuss a matter of importance."

"What matter specifically, my Lord?" Asked the Maester in response, confused.

Lambert looked at his servant, stone faced. "Send the ravens."

º º º

Perce sat next to his Lord brother at the great hall of Hightower a week and a half after their father's passing. It was near the middle of the night, and almost all Lords sworn to House Hightower drank ale and ate at the banquet Lambert had organized, but Perce did not eat nor drink any of it. He observed the faces of those present — many for the first time even though most were obliged by oath to give their lives for his if necessary. All the families who possessed any power in the Reach but the Tyrells of Highgarden were represented there: House Beesbury of Honeyholt, House Bulwer of Blackcrown, House Costayne of the Three Towers, House Cuy of Sunhouse, House Mullendore of the Uplands and many others as well. They came from the Arbor, Bitterbridge, Old Oak, the Shield Islands, Goldengrove and other such places in the far corners of the Reach.

When the fires started to run low and the conversations to die, Lambert Hightower ordered silence from the bards and his guests. He stood up, wearing his plate armor in its entirety, the sigil of his house forged on the iron at his chest and shown behind him in an enormous banner. Lambert rose his arms and spoke. "My Lords! Welcome to the Hightower halls. I trust you have enjoyed the hospitality that has been offered to you, as I see you have drunk all of my fine ale…"

When he said this, many laughed and hit the long table with their wooden mugs. After they were done, he rose his own cup and proceeded. "Tonight, we drink to honor the memory of my father." The hall rose theirs in answer and Lambert completed. "In his honor!"

And the hall repeated it after him, loud and in unison: "In his honor."

As Perce swallowed his own ale, he saw that Lambert's mug was empty.

When the toast was finished, Lambert continued. "I loved my father my Lords, just as you did love him as your sire." He looked in their eyes, his expression stern and resolved. "Yet, he was weak. Weak! He did not realize that our proud banners flutters too low — That there are some who ruled over ourselves and our loyal subjects and yet, did not deserve it. The actions of a mere steward and an opportunist, Harlen Tyrell, that and Aegon the Conqueror's indifference is what made the Tyrells the Lords of the Reach and Wardens of the South. Why should we bow to them, my Lords?"

Only his words reverberated through the halls now. The tension and the silence was palpable. Lambert knew that all he said had been through their heads. He rejoiced in their undivided attention, and it gave him more than enough confidence to continue. "The ties all your houses have with us, the Hightowers of Oldtown, are much stronger! Where were the Tyrells the Pentoshi pirates raided the Arbor? Or when the Dornish sacked our borders? Nowhere, and why?! Because they lack the strength! The reach of their sword is short! They rely on us, the Hightowers, to do their bidding, _all_ of their biddings, yet they are the ones to rule?"

He spoke with hatred and passion. Of sudden all the warriors and knights present seemed prepared to draw their swords if commanded. "The Tyrells are allied to the Targaryens first and to the people of their own land second. They have raised the taxes on wheat and cattle _thrice_ the last year, and why? To finance the wedding and feasts of some prince who has never set foot in the Reach! No, this is not justice! They have done nothing to deserve our allegiance, for they lack strength!" And, as he said this, Lambert drew his own blade of valyrian steel and raised it above his head.

"Join me! Join the fight for true justice! Join the ones who have always protected you, truly, the strong side! King Baelor is a foolish lover of peace — the fire of his dragons shall not come to aid the Roses, nor will the fury of the crippled or the eldest Stag! Our time has come!"

And thus all the men rose and chanted, their new allegiance just declared to those who light the way. But not all were as ecstatic.

"You shall never survive this insolence, boy! Your time runs short from now!" Screamed Ser Galeren, eldest of the Tyrells of Brightwater Keep.

"You loyalty inspires us all, Ser Galeren the Fair, and shall continue to do so in our dungeons." Said Lambert. As a dozen of the men stood to take hold of Galeren, the Lord sitting on the next chair unsheathed his double-edged axe and buried it in one of the henchman's left shoulder. All those around were blinded from the splattered blood for a moment. Galeren seized the opportunity to take a soldier by his head and brake the edge of the hall table with it.

It was a heroic struggle but ultimately pointless. Ser Galeren was beaten unconscious in but a few moments while Lord Warren Beesbury was beheaded with his own axe.

The Hightower Rebellion had begun.


	2. Chapter 3

**LOWIS**

Lowis awaited by the shore while Quinn washed in the river. It was near sunset again, but this time they had not just arrived — they had spent the entire morning and afternoon in the mine, getting out all the gold they could. They had hidden it inside a wool bag which laid next to Lowis now, its contents worth more than all they had earned in their entire lives combined. No one but themselves knew: They wanted to, above all, protect their earnings from the overwhelming taxation each of the noble families in a twenty mile radius _and_ the Tyrells would impose even if the Beesburys let them keep any of it. As they had agreed, it would be much safer to store the gold until they had enough to travel to Essos and establish a new life there, probably in Lis or Tyrosh.

Lowis day-dreamed as he admired his friend coming out of the water. He imagined what a life with him would be like… He had heard that in some places in Essos people like himself were not despised but rather accepted. Of course, the tavern wench that had told him that had said it with despise and not with the excitement Lowis now felt. It was as though she thought he and all those who were like him deserved a miserable existence. Lowis did not enjoy that, and a moment later, as she laid unconscious on the bedroom's floor, Lowis was finally sure of his sexuality. Later that night, he thought that of course a whore would say that. Pillow-bitters were bad for her business.

As he dressed, Quinn took Lowis out of his fantasies and memories. "Do you want to go drink some ale?"

"We said we ought not spend it yet, Quinn. It would be unwise." Answered Lowis, still a little distracted.

"Oh, forget the damn plan for a moment. I love ale, and it has been a long time since I last had a big, ol' mug full of some of the dark stuff Jame makes."

"Do you really think that nobody will notice if we pay with raw gold? We don't have any coins, Quinn. You're not as smart as you fancy yourself to be." Lowis liked to insult Quinn every once in a while. It kept his friend's arrogance down to bearable levels.

For a moment, Quinn was silent. "You are a blacksmith." He affirmed as he thought of a plan.

Lowis' voice was heavy with mockery. "Yes. What an observant man you are."

But Quinn simply smiled.

º º º

Two days later, they crossed the Flying Bard's Cellar's door in the later hours of the night. It was filled with older, drunk men with their ugly and cheap whores sitting on their laps. A few of them carried weapons, dressed with the colors of the King, the Tyrells and the Beesburys, but most were regular townsmen looking for a loosening evening after a hard day in the fields. It was a way to spend all the money they had earned and leave their children hungry, thus perpetuating the cycle of misery that plagued Westeros.

"The Lion Slayer!" Shouted Tibbot the stonemason from one of the larger tables. All his companions and most of the other men in the establishment laughed soundly.

"Howl all you want boys," Quinn began to say. "but you saw the head. It's the truth."

"Aye, it is the truth. Shall we warn the Lannisters ye's coming for them?" Mocked Tibbot.

"Maybe warn your daughter — actually, forget that, Albretta already knows I'm coming." Quinn replied. Tibbot's face closed with anger and unease while it began to turn scarlet. Lowis cringed at their infantility, and attempted to seize Quinn's shoulder to pull him away from the other men. His friend dodged with ease. Quinn's smile at Tibbot dripped with sarcasm. The stonemason stood up from his chair and pulled his hammer from his belt. He pointed it at Quinn as he shouted "Take it back, brat!"

One of the guards stood up. "Alright, that's enough you two. Let a man drink his fucking ale in peace for fuck's sake!"

Moments later, while they sat next to the bar, Tibbot stared at them from the corner. Lowis was unnerved, but Quinn seemed to not have a single worry in his mind. "I actually _am_ coming from Albretta later, you know." He told Lowis.

Quinn did not know, but every time he said something like that a small part of Lowis died inside. Those were the shards of his hope being destroyed. "Aye, what a great lover you are, fucking a ugly bastard. One of these days her father will kill you, you know."

Quinn drank his dark ale with impetuosity and enthusiasm. He finished the entire mug in a single gulp before he answered. "Tibbot? Killing me? His fat arse wouldn't be able to catch me even if I was two feet away from him."

Lowis was about to reply when Jame the bartender interrupted. "An' how ye fockers plan to pay for me ale?"

"Worry not, gentle and well-spoken bartender," Said Quinn. "today's rounds are well covered." He then took out from the inner pocket of his shirt a golden dragon and slammed it on the table dramatically.

Jame looked at the coin, which had been forged the day before by Lowis. It had a dragon on one side, and the image of a man's face with "Baelor I" written under it on the other. It was a very poor imitation of an actual golden dragon, but no person in that tavern had ever seen one up-close. Jame seemed surprised for a second, but then he was anything but pleased. "Ye stole this?!" He whispered.

"Nay, but what of it if we had? You get your money, we get our drinks. Stop asking pointless questions, Jame, or I shall find another tavern to get drunk in." Said Quinn. Lowis often wondered how his friend got away with saying his threats and insults. One day they would get him killed, he was sure.

But it was not that day. Jame bit the gold, saw it was real. "I'll bring ye the vintage, _milord_." He answered, before the both of them roared with laughter. Lowis remained cringing.

º º º

Many drinks later, Lowis half-walked and half-carried drunken Quinn back through the streets of Honeyholt. First, he had vomited, then almost gotten into a fight with Tibbot and his companions. It took five men to stop the imminent brawling chaos that would most probably wreck the tavern, at which point Lowis had already managed to sneak out with Quinn. Now, he spoke senseless things and all kinds of rubbish, so much that Lowis decided to take him to the forge rather than his home. Although Nigel was an alcoholic just like his son, Quinn's mother Helva always cried when she saw him in the "sorry state."

Lowis took out the key and opened the wooden door reinforced with metal at the entrance of his forge. It was small and cluttered: At the center there was the main furnace which still had some red and glowing coal buried in ashes that took most of the space. It was surrounded by finished farming gear, swords, axes, anvils and wooden shelfs and tables. At one corner, there was a small bed of straw which Lowis used to sleep — next to it, the large wool bag filled with gold nuggets. He left Quinn there and turned around to close the door, only to see two men standing at the entrance. They were dressed in chain armor, covered with the colors of the Beesburys. Their swords were already drawn when the one on the right spoke. "A golden dragon — now, where do a baker's son and a petty blacksmith find a golden dragon?"

Lowis did not say anything. He weighted his chances in his mind and tried not to look at where the gold was, wishing he had hidden it better. The other soldier added in a more serious, emotionless voice "Ye an' that boy is coming with us, and ye'll tell exactly what happen'd." And, when he stepped forward to take hold of him, Lowis reached with stunning velocity for a hammer on an anvil behind him and tried to hit the guard. He easily blocked the hit with his sword. In reaction, Lowis used his left hand to grab a handful of ashes and throw it at the guard's face. He screamed with frustration, and blindly waved his weapon at Lowis with one hand while he tried to clear his eyes with the other.

As Lowis stepped back to dodge the strikes, he saw the other soldier circulating the furnace and approaching from the left. Knowing he had to act soon or face two enemies at once, he launched himself forward. Summoning all his strength, Lowis stroke the blinded guard on the right side of his head, rendering him unconscious — but not before getting cut in his waist. Lowis screamed with pain and fell over, letting go of the hammer. By that time, the other guard already was close, pointing his sword at the fallen blacksmith with fury in his eyes. He loomed the weapon, ready to strike…

When Quinn jumped on his back, stabbing the guard in the throat with the bronze tip of a spear. Thick, dark blood gushed into Quinn's face and clothes, and both fell forward — the dead guard on his face, Quinn on his right shoulder. He screamed with pain. Afterwards, the forge was silent as a grave.


End file.
